!!Warning - het, slash, and what some would term incest. READ NO FURTHER unless you're comfortable with all of the above. !!

Summary: Things you find when you raid the pantry at the Merovingian's. Especially late at night.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, however much I may wish I did.

Author's note: Bit of plotless perversity written after too many viewings of Matrix Reloaded, because the sheer quantity of subtext between the infamous Twins was frying my brain. And because I don't think there can be a woman alive who could watch that film without wondering about that chocolate cake. Incidentally, this is a repost from way back when the film came out, and I think I was one of the first people to write Persephone sympathetically. Poor girl was getting no love back then, so she's getting it squared here. ;)

Sticky Fingers

The night is too hot, again. The lace of my nightgown scratches at my breasts and shoulders, and the white silk sheets cling to the damp skin of my legs. I lie awake, listening to my pig of a husband snoring quietly beside me, and wonder how a computerised, simulated existence can possibly manage to generate such realistic levels of discomfort. Why do we tolerate this, when we could simply rewrite it out of existence? But no, he will not "waste" his talents on such parlour tricks, preferring to save them for his own frivolities; and thus I, his wife, must lie awake and discontent while he enjoys his slumbers. Something here is unfair, and I am not satisfied.

Dissatisfaction is a state I know altogether too much of, in truth. He never makes love to me any more, or even woos me with words or gifts to warm my heart. I miss the man I married, the man whose fiery touch called forth the deepest passions in me, and whose tender lips spoke only endearments. Now I receive dismissals and patronising reassurances whenever I question his neglect of me, and all my advances are rebuffed with deftly turned, hollow excuses. I know he has mistresses, and I can only suppose that he treats them with more generosity - otherwise, they would hardly tolerate him either. I myself remain only because I know he would erase my existence if I tried to do otherwise. I am, I suppose, what the English would call a trophy wife. The thought makes my heart sting with bitterness, but there is no denying it.

Nonetheless, while he remains asleep I am at liberty to do as I please. My thoughts turn to the earlier incidents of the day. Not the nonsense with the Resistants, that was enjoyable but not significant; no, I am recalling my husband's questionable gift to one of his female guests. Whatever went into that chocolate cake, the results were, to say the least, interesting. I can hardly recall the last time anything produced such feelings in me - certainly I cannot recall the last time he did - and I feel a distinct twinge of envy for that innocent young woman whose nerve endings he so wickedly exploited. I should have liked to be in her shoes, at that moment.

And then, I realise that perhaps I can sample the experience for myself. After all, someone prepared that delicacy to my husband's specifications, and if there is one thing I know from the years of dinner parties it is that all good food results in leftovers and scraps. So, somewhere in the kitchens, perhaps there is more of that cake.

Slipping out of bed, I strip off the damp nightgown and drop it to the floor. Relieved to be free of the wretched thing, I pull on my golden satin dressing robe for the sake of decency and slide my feet into my slippers. Quietly I move through the half-open door and slip down the corridor, my thoughts tingling with an unaccustomed excitement. It is a very long time since I did something forbidden, however trivial, and this is the second time today. What in the world has got into me?

The kitchens are, predictably, deserted, and I can freely search through the refrigerators for that cake. However, to my disappointment, there is no trace to be found of it. There is enough food of all normal kinds to hold another three parties, but not a sign of my husband's special recipe. Perhaps after all it was a single piece of coding, generated entire and without leaving any crumbs...

Behind me I hear a soft, hastily suppressed cry.

I spin on my heel, staring about me. It seems that the sound came from the open door of the dining room, and I advance cautiously, wondering what is going on. For either I am going mad, or the voice I heard was that of a man in the throes of the most extreme pleasure. Has someone else slipped out to gratify their desires in the middle of the night?

And then, looking cautiously around the door, I see them.

The Twins. My husband's beautiful, depraved lieutenants, stealers of hearts both human and machine. I should have known. The two of them are together at their private table, one leaning back in his chair, the other kneeling on the floor with his head in his brother's lap. Their fingers are intertwined, their perfect lips are smudged with cream and chocolate, and in the middle of the table are the half-demolished remains of the missing cake. All is suddenly very clear to me.

I know I should interrupt them, let them know I am there. I am spying on something that was not intended for my eyes. But instead I stand hypnotised, drinking in the scene before me. For, in truth, I have always secretly wondered what the Twins were doing behind our backs. They play with each other in public so often, exchanging meaningful looks and blown kisses, finishing each other's sentences, flirting with each other and teasing us all beyond bearing; and now I know for sure that there is more to it than merely a desire to make onlookers blush. For I can see the proof before me now in coded silver flesh and blood, the seated Twin with his clothes all in disarray and the kneeling one with his lips hungrily parted, whitedusters discarded, shirts and ties undone, the two of them wrapped around each other with a passion I can only envy. I should probably be experiencing disgust, or at the very least embarrassment, but all I can feel is the molten heat of desire. They are so beautiful, so perfect together, I cannot find it in me to begrudge them what they have. All I wish is that I could share a taste of it, even for the briefest while.

I watch, all eyes and longing. The seated one arches his back, gasping in pleasure, and the fingers of his free hand tighten in his brother's braided hair. I cannot see clearly what is happening, but my imagination fills in the details readily enough; I know what it takes to put that look on a man's face, and my admiration for the Twins increases along with my jealousy of them. Oh, so exquisite...

I do not even notice the moan of lust that escapes my lips until I realise that they know I am there. Their heads snap around, suddenly alert, perfectly synchronised as always, and they look full at me. For a split second I can see absolute horror in their faces, then the masks slam into place and I am being drilled through the heart by their icy stares. The pain is almost physical.

"Lady Persephone."

"What a... surprise."

Trying to regain the initiative, knowing I owe them an apology at the very least, I walk out into clear view. Suddenly I regret the soundless steps of my velvet slippers - I could use the sharp snap of my high heels to give me some sense of self-assertion, now - but it is too late to worry about details. I stand in the open and let them look at me. "I am sorry. Forgive me."

They look at each other. "Forgive you, lady?"

"For spying on us?"

"Or for enjoying watching?"

I hope I am not visibly blushing. "For both, I think," is all I can say.

Soft laughter. Even in this moment, I cannot help noticing how exquisitely their voices blend together. The harmonisation is perfect. Coded again, of course.

"Should we let her off?"

"Oh, we should."

"But only if she can give us a very good excuse."

"Of course."

Their attention swings back to me. "Well?"

"I came here for the same reason as you, gentlemen. I had no intention of interrupting you." Thank goodness for my legendary composure, and thank my programmer for making the code able to stand up to the stress of even this.

"And that would be?"

I point at the table. "Raiding the kitchens. You appear to have been ahead of me."

More of that silken laughter, and I see their faces soften into smiles. It seems I may be forgiven after all, and the sense of relief I feel is ridiculous beyond measure.

"Well, we haven't finished yet."

"Want some?"

The innuendo is so blatant, so delicious, that I can only laugh with delight. "Thank you." I cross to join them, and reach for the cake knife. Briefly I wonder what my husband would think if he could see me now.

And then, as the taste of sugar and cocoa touches my tongue, I feel a strong hand slide up my thigh and decide that for tonight my husband can - as he would say - go fuck himself.

Fin